


Cupid's Arrow Gone Astray

by strifechaos



Category: Hobbs & Shaw (2019)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Canon-Typical Violence, Fic Exchange, Fluff, M/M, Shobbs Summer Fic Exchange, UST, Valentine's Day Fluff, oblivious boys, triggers listed in the end note
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-01
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25022233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strifechaos/pseuds/strifechaos
Summary: Deckard Shaw and Luke Hobbs have a tradition for Valentine's Day, it's evolved over the years as their relationship with one another changed.5+1 Valentine Gift Exchange between Hobbs & Shaw.My entry for the Shobbs Summer Fic Exchange, for wombat-pop!
Relationships: Luke Hobbs/Deckard Shaw
Kudos: 87
Collections: Shobbs Summer 2020 Fic Exchange





	Cupid's Arrow Gone Astray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wombatpop](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wombatpop/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I don't own Hobbs & Shaw, obviously I'm just having some fun!
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful omni! I couldn't have done this without your seriously awesome tips and corrections! Sorry for any remaining errors, those are my own.
> 
> This is dedicated to: wombat-pop  
> Who requested: One of them gives the other a valentine's gift. With no smutty elements.
> 
> I hope this fulfills the request, I had a lot of fun coming up with potential gifts the guys would have exchanged with one another!

-0-0-0-0-0-0-  
Mortal Enemy  
-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Deckard sent the first Valentine’s Day gift more as a twisted threat than a gesture of infatuation.

He’d been frustrated with his lack of progress in escaping prison, already a kick while he was down - - considering a fucking parking garage had fallen on top of him, being stuck in a government black site’s dank cell had been petty overkill. What little time he wasn’t fixated on busting out, Deckard’s mind had whirled with how to seek revenge on the DSS Agent responsible.

The idea came to Deckard when during their rounds, two guards had paused outside his cell to bitch. They’d lingered for a smoke break, complaining about the expectation that they give their wives something for Valentine’s Day. They’d continued to go back and forth on how the holiday was pointless and commercialized and their “hard earned cash” was wasted on their greedy spouses, who they felt often demanded extravagant and costly gifts as proof of their continued affection. 

Secluded in his prison cell, Deckard’s attention was reluctantly drawn to their complaints and he’d had a burst on inspiration on how the fussy holiday would work as the perfect vehicle for his revenge.

The Shaw reputation in the right circles, even a Shaw that had been disgraced by capture and imprisonment, had been enough to get Deckard’s bidding done against the DSS agent. He’d used some intimidation with his connection within the prison, called in a marker from a guy that owed him that lived in the states and had been able to handle the actual physical delivery, and to Deckard’s twisted delight, the present shows on Hobbs’ desk just in time, the 14th of February.

The next day when a guard carelessly shoved Deckard’s breakfast meal tray through the slot in his cell’s door, a sheet of cheap printer paper had fluttered to the floor. 

Admittedly, by that point in his imprisonment - - the days had started to run together, so Deckard’s interest had been immediately pinged by the unexpected form of communication.  
With the cameras that dotted the prison in mind, Deckard shielded his curiosity as heavily as possible. He glanced over from his yoga position to where the folded paper lay, as if his body weren’t stretched into a difficult forearm-stand scorpion pose, conformed into an almost perfect ‘C’ shape.

To obtain the pose, Deckard’s only contact with the ground had been maintained by his forearms, while his upper arms remained at a right-angle to the ground. He’d stretched his upper back, chest rolled slightly out so that the bottom half of his body was angled up into the air, his ass directly above his shoulders. Deckard’s his legs had been just over his head, his body almost stretched enough so that his toes dangled inches from his bald head. 

Since he hadn’t know who had access to the camera feeds watching him at the time, he’d slowly lifted his legs back up into the air before he lowered one leg at a time back to the ground, pausing for a few minutes in the Child’s pose until he could safely glide up into a standing position and snatch up the note.

It had just been a folded piece of white printer paper. 

Nothing special. Nothing notorious.

With a quirked brow, Deckard had splayed the note open to find a short message that consisted of only three words: “Fuck you, Princess”.

The text is computer generated, but the pool of people that would send such a message, knew how any message to him, and where it would have needed to be delivered – and by a guard no less, well it had been extremely limited. 

And given the little present Deckard had dropped off on Hobbs’ desk the day before, he knew which protein shake obsessed she-hulk sent him a note, even if Hobbs hadn’t signed his name.

Deckard had crumbled the paper, throwing it to the ground, despite the smirk that had tugged at his lips. He’d scoffed at the agent’s pissy message and ignored the spark of delight that shot through his gut at the prospect of bantering back and forth with the American.

“Guess Hobbs didn’t appreciate his Valentine gift.”

Though, if the larger man would have enjoyed such a gift from Deckard, it would have defeated the purpose of him sending it in the first place. A taunt toward the agent needed to leave an impact, and Deckard had been pleased his threat had paid off, the note was proof that Hobbs hadn’t appreciated the bullet with his name engraved on it. 

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-  
Reluctant Ally  
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

By the following year so much had changed for Shaw, being released from the black site prison and having his brother back as well, that he’d easily forgotten about the bullet valentine he’d sent Hobbs.

Luke had not.

Luke had understood, after the briefing, why Mr. Nobody had orchestrated the jailbreak for the limey midget. Shaw, for all his many and varied flaws, had enough connections in the crime world’s underbelly and plain unprecedented skill at finding people, that it had made sense that Mr. Nobody would call him in.

Given the hints Shaw had dropped about his villainous history being the same as Luke’s own frame job, Luke had been willing to work with the other man. Torretto and his crew were solid drivers but they didn’t exist day-to-day in the same world as Luke did. Shaw seemed to be cut from similar, if not the same, cloth at Luke.

Still, after the meal to celebrate the reunion of Brian jr. and his family, Luke hadn’t give Shaw much thought.

At least, he not until he had found himself elbow deep in Sammy’s Valentine’s Day box for school. It had been a stark reminder of the prank the asshole had pulled on him last year. Luke had spent most of the evening pissed, and it hadn’t mattered how many sit-ups and weights he lifted to vent the frustration over the british bulldog getting one up on him. Until he’d figured out a way to get even by Sam mentioning a fundraiser, the school choir was fundraiser by offering Singing Valentine-grams for other students for $5. Always weak to his daughter’s pleading and happy for the inspiration for his own plotting, he’d given in with an advance on her allowance so she was able to send her best friend one.

He knew that while a singing telegram would annoy Shaw, he would need something better if he wanted a hope of drilling into that English pound cake just how out of his league Luke was at pranks. Luke might not be a psycho or have a psycho little brother like Owen but he’d grown up with surrounded by his brothers and cousins and friends of the family. Luke knew how to prank.

After he’d checked Sammy’s homework and seen that she was tucked in for the night, Luke researched what he could online, made a few phone calls and then sat back with a giant smile on his face, inordinately pleased with himself and what he’d accomplished in an evening. Luke wasn’t the team lead for the premier DSS crew because he didn’t know how to strategize. Deckard Shaw didn’t have a chance, Luke was going to have him wishing he’d swallowed that bullet himself when he was done.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-  
Begrudging Frenemy  
-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-

The patrons of The Carpenter’s Arms still occasionally brought up the Swat Attack She-Hulk had called in on Deckard when he’d returned home from their attack against Eteon. So it wasn’t a shock that when Hobbs’ Valentine surprise came a few months later, the regulars were only too thrilled to have more material to tease the former military man about.

Deckard would like to say he took the ribbing with good grace, but after a year of relentless snarking and snide teasing remarks, it took up as much good will and humor as Deckard could spare. 

January had found him on the cusp of flying out to California to beat the ever living shit out of Hobbs until he begged for mercy. Teach him that it wasn’t right to pull a prank on a man in his favorite pub! Let alone, twice!! 

Destroying one of the only places where he could unwind with a pint had just been unconscionable.

To tell the truth, which Deckard would rather eat a pound of fire ants than let slip to Hobbs, but he’d been more furious with himself than the situation the DSS agent had arranged. That he hadn’t picked up on what had been about to happen at the time, what had added on to that frustration was that it had taken even longer for him to connect the dots and recognize Hobbs’ handiwork in the Event. 

Though the patrons of Carpenter’s Arms were closer to his mum’s age, the fit guy that pulls up a stool next to Deckard doesn’t raise any eyebrows. The occasional ‘youngster’ will wander in, often on a dare from his mates, order a pint – chug it and flee before the clientele can get rowdy about the intrusion on their peace and quiet.

At the time, Deckard had only spared the barest of glances from his paper and pint, determined to avoid any bullshit, but he was able to take in an unseasonably underdressed younger man, clocked him as being over 6-foot and having about a stone in muscle on Deckard before his attention had already returned to his paper. 

What did set off his radar was that after throwing back a shot, the man placed his cellphone on the bar, cued up Taylor Swift’s ‘Shake It off’ and then dove deeper into Deckard’s personal space than he’s comfortable with anyone outside of a fight or a fuck.

Deck had thought the younger man must have hit up a few other pubs before wandering into the Carpenter’s Arms. He’d watched dispassionately as the guy had scrambled to pick something up off the floor, confirmation in Deckard’s eyes that his guess was correct. He’d watched with a smug condescension as the man ducked down to, only for Deckard to realize his mistake thirty seconds too late when the man proceeded to rip his pants and tank away to reveal vibrantly pink booty shorts and matching fuzzy bralette. 

The man was able to throw a handful of heart-shaped confetti in the air, most of it flung in Deckard’s shocked face and open mouth, the ex-agent had frozen in place, too shocked to shut down the stripper as he attempted to gyrate across Deck’s lap, belting out lyrics at the top of his lungs.

The rest of the pub’s crowd had eagerly scented blood in the air and almost immediately lost it-- hooting and hollering encouragement and crass jokes at the pair. It had taken a long minute for Deckard’s brain to reboot enough for him to shut the performance down, thank the young performer for his enthusiasm, and send him on his way.

The glitter had been a step too far in Deckard’s opinion—the bartender was still finding it around the pub almost a year later, so as January dropped off.

So as the ball had been placed in Deckard’s court this year, he’d completed a little recon on the DSS Agent responsible for last year’s Unthinkably Horrid Fiasco.

For obvious reasons, pulling a trick like he did with Toretto out of the question for the . . . exchange he’d been doing with the American agent. Breaking into DSS’ files to scoop the information he needed was hardly beyond his skill set but after what went down with Eteon last year, Deckard had an easier in to his nemesis’ weakness right in his pocket.

Or well in his phone.

When the other end of the line had picked up, Deckard couldn’t resist smirking as his plan had started to come together.

“Jonah, quick favor, mate . . .”

-0-

Thanks to a series of missions orchestrated by Mr. Nobody, Luke and Shaw had managed to develop a tentative truce. Enough to work together to complete mission goals, on the rare occasion both their skill sets were required. The prickly brit would still bicker with Luke, butting heads and swapping quips but the volatile psycho that blew up office buildings and cars hadn’t reared his pyromaniac head in a good long while. Not against Hobbs.

Which is why Luke made the critical misstep of assuming the jar of gummy hearts delivered to his desk were safe for human consumption. Through hard work, dedication – and a truly insane amount of pushups, Luke had trained himself out of his childhood sweet tooth.

Except for his Cheat Day.

And as it happened, that year his weekly Cheat Day coincided with Valentine’s Day.

After Shaw hadn’t shown up to tear him a new one over the strip-o-gram last year, and with the various missions they’d spent saving one another’s hides since then, he figured the other man had moved on from their past feud, so Luke ate more than half the jar before he manages to put the lid back on. Gummy candy had always been his weakness, the cinnamon hearts are a tad hotter than he’d of selected but the fact that Shaw actually took the time to send him something nice for the holiday for once, and not a threat, had warmed him more than the candy ever could.

Ten minutes later disaster struck.

It hadn’t been until Luke was dripping sweat, stomach churning dangerously that he realized how crafty that British bastard had been. Unfortunately, Luke had fled to the bathroom, buns clenched until he could take over the handicap stall in the Men’s third floor Locker Room. The banshee screams and groans he releases as the tainted candy passes through him scared scare any other agent from attempting to enter the Locker Room for the rest of the day.

When he’d finally been able to safely emerge from the stall, Luke had wearily admitted that perhaps Shaw hadn’t been as candid about a second attack on his pub.

Regardless, next year he was gonna own Shaw’s ass!

-0-0-0-0-0-  
Sorta Friend  
-0-0-0-0-0-

Luke still has reoccurring nightmares about the candy sent to him as a prank. 

After a little prodding, Jonah had folded like a cheap suit when Luke had pressed him about the candy, admitting to having told the brit about Luke’s childhood sweet tooth and specifically that his kryptonite was gummy candies.

His older brother swore he hadn’t realized Deckard would weaponize Luke’s sweet tooth, that he’d thought the three of them (Luke, Hattie and Deckard) were friends but his older brother’s deep chuckles when Luke related what happened belays the sentiment about being on Luke’s side. Jonah had snickered and asked Luke a question that stuck in his brain like some sort of mind parasite. 

“Are there really opposing sides when it comes to the two of you, urso?” 

Luke hadn’t liked the question then and he liked it even less, a year later, because he’d first thought the answer was an easy “Yes, of course there are two sides”! but as he’s worked more and more with the Brit, come to rely on Deckard to save his bacon in car chases and gun fights, Luke had to admit that maybe Jonah had a point. More of a point about Luke and Deckard than Luke wants to admit to the smug bastard.

After all, he’d known Deckard was a cagey bastard but using his own brother against him was sinister. Having Jonah leak what his favorite childhood candy had been, and then using that knowledge to give him the worst case of food poisoning known to man was pretty severe retaliation for a lap dance in a shady pub. Especially as Luke knew there was no way in hell Owen or even Hattie would give out similar information. Deckard’s siblings shared a level of hero worship for their big brother that prevented any sharing of weaknesses to any outsider. Even an outsider that had saved Hattie’s or Deckard’s lives multiple times. 

Despite the setback, he kept running different pranks through his mind but the perfect prank didn’t come to him until he was assigned to provide oversight for a team of probie agents on their first undercover mission. 

Given the level Luke has already risen to in DSS, he is seldom selected to handle the rookies, often given enough leeway to handpick his own team even if that includes people outside the agency. When an agent has proven that they’re worth the investment of his time he doesn’t mind building them up but whatever barrel they scraped the shitty newbies out of for prospective agents might as well have been a garbage bin. His exacting standards for agents, or even just people he’d partner with like Shaw, make supervising them a hellish struggle.

It felt like a waste of his evening with a mission that he knew Deckard or Hattie would have completed in less than an hour, and it just added to his general restlessness. That he still hadn’t come up with a response to Deckard’s prank had also eaten away at his normally good mood.

The probie seems to have a good hand on her mission, and desperate for a distraction Luke happens to glance over at one of the screens opened up on Taggert’s laptops. He can’t help arching an eyebrow at the younger man in the van next to him, watching him squirm before asking, “You wanna explain to me why you’ve got that open on a work computer while we are out in the field on a mission that you’re meant to be watching the security cameras for Evans, Taggert?”

Taggert belatedly closed the tab on his browser, but it didn’t make Luke suddenly wiped the image of highly improbable proportioned ladies and men, barely decked out in festive lingerie, disappear from his mind. 

The probie agent cleared his throat and apologized. “S-s-sorry, boss. Trying to find the missus a Valentine’s gift, won’t happen again, I swear!”

“Hmm.” Luke grunted, giving him a stony glare, unimpressed. “See that it doesn’t.”

“Yes, sir!”

Despite had felt like a wasted evening, Evans had managed to finally nab her target and even Taggert had straightened up after Luke scolding him. Once they’ve returned to base and Luke gave orders for their field reports to be in his inbox before the next morning, Luke brings up the same website Taggert had been looking at on his phone. 

An unsavory idea has hatched in his brain. He goes back and forth between a handprint and his name for what he wanted embroidered on the seat of the panties, before he went with the choice that makes the possessive flare in his gut clench guiltily. Luke told himself it was just a joke, and it wasn’t like Shaw would wear them anyways. 

Luke just wishes he could be there to see Deckard’s enraged, pissed off expression when he opens the package.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-  
Trusted Partner  
-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Deckard would never admit it, but the pants he’d received from last year’s V-Day prank had turned out to be damn near sinfully comfortable. 

Almost tasteful too, if one ignored the text embroidered across the seat.

All the same, it’d been a busy year, between his siblings crashing in his guest room for extended visits after they’d both managed to injure themselves; Owen for a week (wrist) and Hattie, just three weeks, (knee), and their mother showing up to rope him into a con she’d worked up that required one more person.

By the time February had rolled in, the itch to escape London for a few weeks had reached an all time high. When Mr. Nobody had contacted him about a job outside of his normal turf, he’d been desperate enough to agree. It’d just been a few milk runs with Hobbs, and the chance to banter with the taller man had been a welcome change of pace after a stressful extended visit with his own family. 

He loved them but there were legitimate reasons for why they seldom spent extended time together, the least of which was the overwhelming force of their personalities. None of them made good patients: a wounded Owen was persnickety and tiresome, insisting Deckard open things for him or dictate letters; while a laid up Hattie had been grumpy over her lack of motion and needy in the way only the baby of a family could be. 

In direct comparison, Deckard found Luke’s laidback manner to be a soothing balm to be around. For missions, it helped that he knew the other man would have his back because while Owen and Hattie were deadly, the big brother in him would always be most concerned about their safety on a mission. Deckard had tentatively found himself enjoying missions with the other man. He’d tried to remain standoffish, Brixton’s ghost haunting him still, but his weakness had always been competent people and Luke always got his man.

Just as they’d been on the cusp of finishing up a particularly gruesome hunt involving human traffickers, allies of the group had shown up and captured them. Given the shit show the mission had been up until that point, running into unexpected obstacles at near every damn turn, they’d barely eked out an escape after killing the shithead selling orphans to other monsters. 

The second-in-command of the operation had managed to summon forces from their ally and once they’d outnumbered and subdued Deckard and Luke, they’d been taken back to their headquarters. The group had taken Deckard for questioning first, assuming his smaller size made him an easier target. They’d been wrong and eventually returned him to the cell they’d held them in. 

Hobbs had been gone for twice as long as Deckard, long enough that he grown concerned about the condition the other man would be returned in. At the time, Deckard’s escape plans required that Luke be able to move under his own steam, if Deckard were to have been bogged down by needing to drag Luke’s protein shake guzzling ass out of the rattrap of a headquarters it would have slowed their escape and have left them open to attack. That concern is burned out of him when the assholes finally return Luke to the cell. Deckard had exploded into a whirlwind of fury when he saw the condition the other man, fingers broken, face bloodied and bruised, eyes swollen shut, shirt shredded from knife wounds. Hobbs slumped over where the enemy dropped him, too close to corpselike to cool Deckard’s rising fervor. It was too close to how Owen had been after Deckard had finally hunted down the hospital they’d kept him in. With a partner the size of Hobbs, people tended to miscalculate Deckard’s own physical prowess, much to their own detriment. This time it was the key to winning their freedom. Deckard harnessed his towering rage into a berserker’s ferocity that the human traffickers had no hope against; he left them a bloody smear across their headquarters before he phoned Nobody for their evacuation.

Under Deckard’s watchful eye, the medic on their evac strapped Luke down on the cot so that the military carrier could take off; doing what he could for the DSS agent until they reached a hospital. Deckard had dropped off not long after the plane was in the air, only able to dredge up the last reservoirs of his energy to disembark when they’d touched down in the States.

After he’d been dismissed from the hospital for superficial wounds, Deckard had reported to a visiting Mr. Nobody, updated him on the mission’s success. Before he left the hospital, he picked up an item he’d request from a contact and made his way to Luke’s room.

He’d been awake, though loopy on medication when Deckard had walked into the room. The brit tossed a package on Luke’s lap. Luke automatically reached out to snatch the bag out of the air, opening it up and glancing inside before sending Deckard a puzzled look.

“What the hell, Deck? How’d you manage to get my gun back?”

Deckard had corrected him. “It’s not yours, it’s a replacement for the one you lost on the mission.”

Luke’s face had split into a smile that lit up the room. “Thanks, Princess, you know this is actually the nicest Valentine’s Day gift you’ve given me. A firearm isn’t very romantic but considering who it’s from, that’s about what I would expect.”

“Oi! Shut it, y’berk, before I load it with your first present and shoot you in the ass!” Deckard said, determined to ignore the blush that wanted to flood his cheeks. He could be romantic.

Instead of being insulted by the threat, Luke’s face split into a charmed grin at his partner’s antics.

“Yeah, ok tough guy.” Luke rolled his eyes before letting a more genuine expression take over. “Thanks for the gun, Deck.”

Deckard shrugged off the thanks, internally cursing his pale skin as the blush won and filled his cheeks, pleased at his partner’s appreciation.

“Whatever, don’t mention it.” Deckard looked at the machine beeping next to Luke’s bed. “It’s just to keep with our tradition.”

Luke, pleased with how flustered the smaller man had gotten, allowed him the escape from talking about his emotions, a smiling softly as he admired the gun.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, tough guy.”

Deck snorted and pulled up a chair, content that his partner was going to be ok and that the gift had gone over well.

-0-0-0-0-0-0-  
Significant Other  
-0-0-0-0-0-0-

Deckard put away the last of the dishes from dinner, mentally congratulating himself on a well put together meal. When he turned away from the cupboard, Luke was still leaning against the kitchen island, watching his movements through half-lidded eyes, a wistful look on his face.

“So, where is it?” 

At Luke’s blank look, Deckard’s eyes narrow dangerously, arms crossing over his chest before he expands on his question. “The gift you got me for Valentine’s Day, wanker, where is it?”

Luke stood up from the island and swaggered over to Deckard, crowding into his personal space, and backing him up against the sink, the beginning of a smirk tugging at his lips at he leans down.

“A gift, huh?”

His right-hand creeps up to cup Deckard’s cheek and Luke runs his thumb over Deckard’s jaw, using his grip to angle Deck’s head up so their lips can meet in a sensuous kiss, slow, but steadily building up the heat between them. Deckard gets lost in the connection.

Luke breaks the kiss, scraping his teeth along Deckard’s jaw line, determined to leave a mark where Deck’s jaw and throat join, alternating between using his teeth and tongue on the sensitive skin. The smaller man squirms, clutching at the back of Luke’s head and digging into his shoulders, groaning as Luke brushes a gentle kiss against the marked skin, leaning back to whisper heatedly into Deckard’s ear. 

“I figured you’d like it if I just rim you until you cried, babe.”

Deckard froze, his body stilling beneath his lover’s touch. He blinked, dazedly for a moment before he jerked away from Luke’s grip, his expression settling into an intense scowl. 

Aimed directly at Luke. 

Luke gulped, not having predicted this outcome.

“Are you fucking serious?” Deckard demanded his voice barely above a dangerous growl. “I flew in from London, wearing the pants you bought me with your fucking name across the arse -- to sepnd the day cooking a five-course dinner and your Valentine’s gift for me is a no effort, no thought required sexual favor?”

Deckard tucked his disappointment behind a disgusted glare and pissed off mien. They’d come pretty far over the years, farther than anyone had predicted, changing from enemies to reluctant allies to antagonistic acquaintances to almost friends and then partners in kicking ass, only to evolve once more into a committed relationship. The threat that his first Valentine’s gift had been had evolved over the years too. They’d moved from threats to cruel jokes to embarrassing gifts and then to items of use. That Luke, the sappiest bastard Deckard knew, wouldn’t have put time and effort into securing even a cliché gift for what had become their tradition, was a blow Deckard hadn’t thought he’d need to prepare against.

“Clearly you’ve not one romantic bone in your entire body, Luke Hobbs.”

Desperate to recover their evening from the abrupt mood change, Luke tried to lighten the atmosphere by sending Deckard a leering wink. “I’ve got one romantic bone but part of your gift was going to be me putting it into YOUR body.” 

He moved in toward the smaller man but his vast miscalculation was made instantly apparent when Deckard’s face morphed into an even more pissed You-Better-Rethink-That look, his arms folded tightly across his chest, creating further distance between them and a stone cold rage brewing in his eyes that guaranteed broken furniture and household damage in Luke’s immediate future if he didn’t dig himself out of this hole. Immediately.

Luke threw his arms out; his palm’s spread wide in a gesture of surrender and to stop Deckard from charging him.

“Deckard, I’m joking!”

Deckard paused, a shred of hesitance that wouldn’t stop his temper from boiling over if Luke didn’t act fast, explain himself fast and to Deckard’s satisfaction, held him place.

“Deck, come on. I did get you a gift. After all these years, you think I'd drop the ball? It’s in my office; I didn’t want Sammy messing around with it. She helped me pick it out.”

Deckard’s fury was instantly banked at mention of Luke’s daughter. “Sam helped you pick out my Valentine’s gift?”

Luke wanted to smirk at the immediate change in Deckard’s attitude but past experience had taught him not to look a gift tiger in the mouth when it came to Deckard. Instead of being smug he just gave Deck a wide smile as he nodded his head. “Yeah, she was really excited and wanted me to text your reaction.”

Fully intrigued, Deckard’s posture loosened and he came closer to Luke, a hair too forward to be considered tentative but not as swagger-filled as the other man typically moved about when he was at the Hobbs household.

Luke held the box out to Deckard. It’s about the size of a deck of cards and wrapped in a simple red paper, a white ribbon tied around it in a frilly bow (Sam’s addition). Luke watches with bated breath as Deckard allows him to place the gift in his hand but his partner seems to stall after that, eyes riveted to the box and not moving for several heartbeats.

Ever so slowly, Deckard pulls the ribbon loose, careful to keep the bow intact, no doubt recognizing Sam’s contribution toward the gift. Luke pretends not to notice how Deck slides the ribbon into his jacket pocket before he slices the paper open where Lisa had taped the gift up for him (she was well aware of just how incompetent Luke was when it came to wrapping paper and in this one instance willing to help him out). Deckard peeled the paper back and slid the case open. He let a sharp inhale slip passed his lips, fingers clenched without thought around the box as he pulled it in closer to his chest.

“Are – are you two bloody sure?”

Luke could watch the tentative hope bloom his Deckard’s eyes forever, but well aware how much Deckard hated to be so vulnerable, he reached forward and pulled the box, still clenched in Deck’s hand, toward him, reaching in and gently pulling the silver item from the box.

“We both would like if you moved in with us, Deckard.”

Luke gently placed the key in Deckard’s palm. He immediately clenched his hand around it, his fingers folded so tightly around they were leached of color and a bloom of pleasure flares in Luke’s gut at Deckard’s excitement. Deckard’s lips tucked up into a pleased expression. “This is much better, Flex.”

Luke’s lips stretched into a smile in return, he leaned in toward Deckard to press a kiss to his lips. “Glad you think so, Deck, happy Valentine ’s Day, sweetheart.”

-0-0-0-0-0-0-  
The End  
-0-0-0-0-0-0-

**Author's Note:**

> There is mention of the guys taking down human traffickers who sell orphans. 
> 
> The results of some torture Luke undergoes while he's being questioned by the bad guys is mentioned, not super explicit but present.


End file.
